Confirmation
by jansonpls
Summary: Wes Janson's just lost his first pilot to the Yuuzhan Vong war. Liberal use of my own personal canon for the Taanab Yellow Aces, featuring original character Lea Ryze, but mostly Wes.


He knew it was going to happen, of course. Knew it _had_ to happen, eventually (but how he wished _eventually_ wasn't _now_). They were fighting a war, after all, and he had a rather intimate knowledge of what war was like.

So the concept, the idea of it, was never going to shock him. But the actuality--

It never got easier, and that was how he knew he was still alive.

There were two bottles in his desk, in the bottom right drawer. Neither was open -- one was a brandy that Gavin had given each of the old Rogues when they retired, the other was a bottle of whiskey that Anndi had given him for his lifeday last year, before this whole mess -- but he'd put them there out of habit when he took over this room. An officer always had to have a supply of liquor, after all; never mind that he had no one to drink it with when more than half of his squadron weren't even of legal age on Taanab.

He didn't care now, though, didn't need a squadmate to drink with. Might have liked one, maybe, but -- this was why he'd never wanted to be a leader. When you were a leader, you had to be stronger the worse things got. You couldn't have any weaknesses, not in front of your squadron. Not in front of kids who thought you could do anything. You had to be there to help when _they_ got weak, didn't you?

He found himself wondering how Wedge had felt the first time a Rogue had died under his command.

His datapad lay open in front of him and he stared at it, stared at the message he'd started -- _regret to inform you_ -- and then he slammed it shut, clenched his fist to stop himself throwing it across the room. He wasn't going to send a letter to a family who lived an hour away, was he? He could take a speeder and go see them himself tomorrow, all dressed up in uniform, and tell them how their son had been a brat in meetings, a flirt outside them, and _so damn loyal_, and how proud he was and how much it hurt and--

He opened the drawer, pulled out the whiskey, and didn't bother finding a glass before propping his chair against the wall and putting his feet on the desk.

It wasn't fair, it wasn't _ever_ fair, and it was _always his fault_. Every time a friend died, every time someone he liked died, it was something to do with him. Something he could have done or not done. Could've talked Doran down better, could've been smarter and not gotten sick before Yavin, could've--

Kriff, he hated this. Hated dwelling on this shavit, hated not being able to stop, hated this whole damn war.

The whiskey was warm and familiar and it made him smile, because it made him forget.

"Wes? _Wes_! Are you in there?"

He winced at the banging on his door and the obnoxious voice on the other side, and held up his bottle thoughtfully. A quarter gone, which wasn't too much, but how long had passed, exactly? He put it down, picked up a pen, and wrote his name on the palm of his hand experimentally.

Legible. All right.

"That's _Major Janson_," he shouted at the door, "and no. Well, yes, but I'm very busy and important. Very busy _being_ important. Shoo."

_Hmm,_ he thought, _maybe the handwriting test isn't the most effective anymore._

"I'm coming in there!"

"...that's talented of you, kid, since you're not in the room."

The noise at the door stopped, and he beamed at the point scored. Then he glanced at the bottle, and the pen, and his closed datapad, and he sighed and leaned back in his chair again and stared at the ceiling instead.

A few minutes later, the door opened, and then his view of the ceiling was obscured by a set of keys dangling above his face. He wrinkled his nose and blew at them ineffectually.

"Wes."

"Where'd you get those?"

"_Wes._"

"Cause the only spare key to this room is in my quarters, and the only person with the code to my quarters is Anndi, and you're not Anndi."

"Sit up properly. You're going to fall."

Before he could protest this, his legs were shoved off the desk and his chair was pushed forward into a more vertical position. He attempted to make the most of this by reaching out to pick up the whiskey bottle, but then _that_ was moved, too, and he found himself staring sadly across the desk at a smug Lea Ryze instead.

(Perhaps 'smug' wasn't the right word. No, she wasn't _smug_, because there was something in her eyes that he was pretty sure was in his, too. But she was _trying_ to appear smug and doing passably well.)

"D'you have any glasses?"

"I've got perfect eyesight."

"...I'll let that slide. Tumblers. I don't want Jansonitis or whatever it is you've got."

"You're too young to drink," he pointed out as he raked through the left drawer in search of glass tumblers; he came up with two and put them on the desk between himself and Lea.

"Not on Hapes." She wiped the glasses on her shirt, then poured a generous measure into one; she hesitated before pouring a little more into the second. "And don't bother saying," she continued before he could, in fact, say anything, "that we're not on Hapes just now."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he murmured, picking up his glass. He tilted it from side to side for a few moments, watching the whiskey, then glanced back at Lea. "Technically, you're not old enough there, either. Two weeks."

"Oh." She sounded disappointed. "I thought you fell for it when I moved my birthday up two months."

He snorted and didn't bother dignifying that with a response. Instead, he sipped his drink, but somehow he didn't quite feel the need to down the whole thing at once anymore.

After a second, he asked, "What're you doing here, Lea?"

"Scoring free booze."

"_Lea_," he mocked.

She grinned in recognition, but her humour faded quickly. She didn't answer until she'd finished her whiskey.

"I like-- liked him," she said slowly. She didn't look up, fascinated by her empty glass. "He-- had the same name as my brother. That's a stupid reason to like someone, isn't it?"

"Better than some," he said with a shrug. "Liked, or--?"

"What does _that_ matter?"

"Doesn't." He waited a second, studying her; she still wasn't looking at him. "But?"

She rolled her eyes and finally looked up, shooting him a look that he interpreted as _you've gotta be kidding me_. "He had the same name as my brother and he was _like_ my brother. So, what're _you_ doing?"

"Not getting as drunk as I'd hoped," was his instant response. He wasn't really sure, though. The immediate, pressing urge to get as drunk as he could had passed, at the cost of almost a third of his bottle of whiskey, and now he felt -- stupid, almost. The reason he'd locked himself in his office in the first place was to avoid being weak in front of his _(kids)_ pilots, but here was the youngest, sitting in front of him and drinking his whiskey and almost -- almost -- making him crack.

And what had he done for her, anyway? What had he done for _any_ of them, who might've _liked_ the kid? Given them tomorrow off and hoped they wouldn't have to fight again for a while.

"Hey-- hey!"

He blinked, then winced as Lea snapped her fingers an inch from his face. "What?"

"You're getting quiet. Don't do that, it's scary."

Managing a wry smile, he pushed her hand away. "It happens. Don't be so shocked."

She gave him a dubious look, but poured herself another glass of whiskey without arguing. She sipped it slowly this time (he wondered where she'd gotten a taste for whiskey), then sighed in apparent frustration and insisted, "_Say_ something, then."

"Yub yub."

"...something _real_."

"That _is_ real!" He made a face at her. "Why don't _you_ say something? You never shut up most of the time. I'm serious, one day I'll put in a request for a tonne of tape and everyone on base'll wonder why it's suddenly gotten so quiet."

She made a face in return, opened her mouth to say something ... then closed it and rolled her eyes. "Guess I'm quiet, too," she murmured, leaning back in her chair.

"Yeah." He downed the rest of his whiskey and closed his eyes as he felt it go down. "Yeah," he repeated. "It'll do that to you."

"Yeah," she echoed, and he glanced at her sharply. But he couldn't detect any trace of mockery: just a thoughtful expression as she contemplated her drink. Eventually, she took another gulp of the whiskey and put her glass down. "Anndi's trying to take your job."

"He's welcome to it."

"He says he's not, but he did bunk inspections yesterday cause you haven't for a week, and I know he's a mechanic, but he still spent way too long inspecting our fighters yesterday after-- yesterday, and then giving us all detailed reports on how long he's going to have to spend fixing them and how many supplies he's going to have to order."

"If he starts walking around with an Ewokese phrasebook, comm me."

She saluted him, a mocking gesture with two fingers barely touched to just above her right eye, and he spent a long second trying to work out exactly why it looked so familiar before he realised it was a perfect imitation of his own mocking salute.

"An ace," he murmured, and toasted her with his glass.

"Not yet," she said quietly, her expression fading. He wondered if he'd upset her somehow, more than she was already -- then she added, "At least, not 'til I get that farmboy whine down _perfect_ when someone insults Ewoks."

"--I do not whine like a farmboy!"

Except, he thought with a wince, just now.

"Pfft, I've seen your home, farmboy."

"I live in the _city_, when I'm not here. In an _apartment_. Three blocks from the _spaceport_."

"Sure," she said, her grin growing, "you say that _now_, and maybe those old ranchers really aren't your mom and dad with secret names and disguises -- but you just wait. I'll uncover the truth one day. Call up all your old friends, too. Hey, it could be a _This Is Your Life_ kinda deal -- when do you turn fifty, again?"

He sighed and buried his face in his arms, resting on the desk. "Not for a very long time."

"Sure. Six months, right?"

"Six _years_!"

"Sure," she repeated, sounding entirely unconvinced.

He shook his head, expecting further torment. When it didn't come, he lifted his head to glance at her, then propped his chin up on his hands, still leaning on the desk.

She was quiet again, studying her glass as if the answer to the universe could be found in the remnants of her whiskey. When she apparently decided it couldn't, she downed the rest and then pushed the glass thoughtfully across the desk, stopping just before it hit the datapad.

"Wes."

"Yeah?"

After another quiet moment, she leaned on the desk as well, mirroring his pose. He thought this was yet another act of mockery despite her thoughtful expression, and he couldn't decide whether that was a good thing or a bad thing; but he realised it was very like _him_.

"Wes," she repeated, staring at the pen instead of him. "D'you think I'm too young?"

"Yep, even on Hapes."

She rolled her eyes. "Not for drinking. For -- this."

"...you gotta be more specific -- you've been drinking, you're leaning way too close to me, and you're asking if I think you're _young_. I'm pretty sure I don't actually wanna be involved in this conversation."

For that, she dropped the pose briefly and smacked him on the side of his head, hard. It hurt rather a lot, actually, and he made the appropriate indignant noise and sad face at her as she leaned on her hands again, but she didn't seem to care.

"Fighting, Janson." She finally met his gaze. "I'm s'posed to be eighteen, right?"

"It's amazing how much they don't care about that when there's a war on."

She sighed again, clearly frustrated with him. "Answer the question. I know you knew what I meant the first time."

He tilted his head a little, shifting his hands. "Is that so?"

"...just answer it."

"You really want to know if I think you're too young to be fightin'."

"_Yes_."

He studied her, tilting his head the other way now, but he didn't really need to think about it. Because he knew the answer, and he also knew the qualifiers, and he _also_ knew the question she was really asking. But he took a moment to think anyway, and sat up a little straighter, not breaking eye contact.

"Yes," he told her honestly, "but if you'd asked me when _I_ was seventeen, I would've pointed at my unit patch and laughed in your face." Then he added reluctantly, "Or maybe at about your shoulder level."

She stared at him, and he couldn't quite decipher her expression -- until she started to smile, just a little. "So in other words, you're a hypocrite."

He wrinkled his nose. "I'm sure you knew that already."

"Sure, but it's nice to get confirmation." She seemed uncertain still, despite her smile, and he was fairly certain he wouldn't be able to detect that if she hadn't had two glasses of whiskey. He felt this was confirmed when she added, "Is that why you hired me?"

"Nope. I hired you cause you're blonde," he answered deadpan, and ignored her glare. "Every squad needs a blonde, see, and I could've just made Anndi bleach his hair, but then we wouldn't have a _pretty_ blonde, which is almost as important."

"Anndi says he's not sure why you're still single, but I think I just figured it out."

He grinned. "I can be perfectly charming when I want to be. I could tell you you're smart, and funny, and quick, and a pretty good pilot who'll get better with practice, and that apparently you've got good taste in whiskey for a seventeen-year-old girl."

"I don't believe a word of it," she murmured, but he saw her smile as she stared at her empty glass again. Eventually she glanced up at him and said, "I _am_ almost eighteen, y'know. Old seventeen. Were you young seventeen or old seventeen?"

He snorted. "Young. Very young. Twelve-year-old seventeen, and I never grew out of it. But you knew that, too."

"Again," she said with a slight grin now, "confirmation. Does that mean you got your first kill before me?"

"I think," he said firmly, "that's enough heart-warming stories and alcohol for one night," and he tried not to let his wry smile falter as he straightened in his seat. He quickly downed what little remained of his whiskey and scooped up her glass into his before she could protest.

When he looked at her again, though, she didn't seem about to protest anything. She was leaning back in her chair studying him with an intensity that was a little bit scary.

"...what?"

"Nothing," she seemed to decide, and smiled again suddenly. "You're right. It's gotta be, what, midnight? You're an old man, you can't stay up all night anymore. Plus, Anndi's probably gonna do seven a.m. inspections again -- he's taking this job way too seriously, you _have_ to stop him."

"Never," he said, watching her curiously as she stood up (and grabbing the whiskey bottle before she could take it). "You okay?"

"Yeah." She sounded honest enough, and she paused after sliding her chair back against the wall it had come from. "Are you?"

He snorted and waved off her concern, fairly certain it was another mock gesture. He couldn't quite place it on his own scale, but clearly she was developing her own style already. "See you tomorrow, Ryze. Tell Anndi no inspections if you see him, from me."

"Can you ... sign something with that?"

"Nope. Use your charm and wit. Shoo."

Again, she threw him a mock salute, and he almost thought it was a little less crooked -- then she was gone, and he was left with his pen and his datapad and his whiskey.

After giving the bottle a long stare, he returned them all to his desk drawers, and left as well.

He'd finish the letter in the morning.


End file.
